This is not actually about my housemates, or me, it's my interpretation of a story I heard from some friends...

Uh oh, it’s that time of year again. Fear not, this is not a column about the distant ring of sleigh bells that are going to annoy you for the next two months. I’m talking about the much closer, much more grating problem of sex noises in shared accommodation.

Your housemates have had a pretty dry summer chilling out in their parents’ boring town. Not much opportunity for jigger-y poker-y because of the awkwardness of ‘that’ conversation with their family. So, here we are, back in Leeds and in a flurry of cheap vodka and funky house your desperate pal has managed to con someone into coming back to your house. You are sitting in bed reading The Guardian and all of a sudden the repetitive tap tapping of a headboard starts to distract you from your paper. As much as you want to know about the situation in Darfur, you cannot resist putting the newspaper down and lying in the semi darkness, kept awake by the groaning and thumping emanating from the next room.

If you are lucky enough just to be plagued by the creaking of springs or the knocking of headboards, your clever little brain can potentially trick you into believing they are doing some exercise. Or rehearsing for a play. Anything but having wild, exciting sex while you sit by yourself filling out council tax exemption forms.

Worse than creaking and shaking are genuine groaning pleasure noises. One can accept the inevitability of furniture or floor boards making a noise if you are having sex. In fact, if they aren’t moving you are probably not doing it right! But, the way a passion fuelled yelp travels through the paper thin walls will set your teeth on edge. On the one hand, you are happy they are showing each other a good time. On the other, you don’t like to hear your pal (the guy who sits and watches Neighbours with you while you sit in stained housepants and pick your nose) romping about in bed as if he is auditioning for a part in ‘Rocky does Leeds’.

It’s morning. You are sitting bleary eyed with a cup of coffee. Even though the raucous sex itself abated soon after midnight, you laid awake for hours replaying the squealing sounds of pleasure with a pillow over your face. The offending housemate emerges. They ask you how you are doing. You bite your lip and stare into your rapidly chilling cup. You want to ask them if they could keep it down next time rather than rubbing your lack of sexual activity in your face like salt into a particularly bloody wound. You say,

“I’m good, thanks.”